


come build me up

by defcontwo



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen, also unexpected ot3 vibes whoops, queer gen is that a thing that might be a thing here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 16:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2117316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you ever feel like -- like you joined up because you wanted to do good. You wanted to do the right thing but somewhere along the way, you just lost the whole fucking plot.” </p><p>“All of the time.” </p><p>Or: the one where Captain America and Agent 13 give long distance friendship a whirl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come build me up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haipollai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haipollai/gifts).



The hotel restaurant is quiet and dim, with mood lighting set in orange tones that were probably aiming for comforting and a twelve euro gin and tonic that's heavily watered down, even by his standards. An outline of the Nikolaikirche is sketched onto his hotel napkin in bright blue ink, the pen stolen from the lobby. 

Steve walked the streets of Leipzig, earlier, imagined he could feel the footsteps of all the people who walked here before, the people who gathered in peaceful protest while he was asleep in the ice and pictured himself gathering some of that strength, leeching it from the cobblestones and using it to carry him forward. 

This is the tenth city in two months and while his body is still willing, still strong, Steve is tired -- tired of cookie cutter hotel rooms, tired of road trips and plane rides and dead ends. 

Steve’s shoulders hunch forward, his jacket stretching tight across his back, bunching uncomfortably as he picks up the cocktail stirrer to mix the drink that he's been nursing for the past half hour. Sam is upstairs packing up the last of his things. Sam, brave and funny and incredible Sam who deserves better than this mess, who has stuck with him this far and keeps on sticking with him even though maybe they both should’ve given up two or three cities ago. Sam, who Steve can't bear the thought of asking more from but is just selfish enough that he can't bear the thought of losing him, either.

They’re leaving today, pushing on into Hamburg and maybe up into Denmark if the trail doesn’t go cold by then. 

He’s a ghost, Natasha had said, and Steve’s starting to really understand what she’d meant by that. 

A waitress walks over and sets down a cup of coffee in front of Steve. “Uh, ma’am? I didn’t order this,” Steve says, and wonders if he really looks so bad that the wait staff thinks he needs to switch to coffee. 

The waitress shrugs, a smile dimpling her face. “Compliments of the house, sir.” 

Steve eyes the coffee suspiciously. It’s probably poisoned, he figures, and sure maybe his body might metabolize most poisons quickly enough that they barely slow him down but that doesn’t mean that HYDRA doesn’t have a science division holed up somewhere dedicated purely to the art of taking him down. 

Steve picks up the coffee cup only to find a piece of paper folded neatly underneath. He picks it up, setting the coffee cup back down, and unfolds it quickly. 

In neat block letters, Steve reads: 

(202) 990-5679

THE NEXT CUP IS ON YOU, NEIGHBOR. 

. 

Steve makes it to Hamburg with the note folded up in his front jacket pocket, wrinkled and worn from re-reads. He’d looked it over and looked it over, trying to figure out what message it could be hiding, what code could be held within it, and he comes up empty every time. 

It does what it says on the tin. 

He’s seen the recordings that survived the destruction of the Triskelion, he knows what Agent 13 did that day. The question that haunts him is this: would she have done it anyways? Stood up to HYDRA, thrown herself in harm’s way, started asking questions when no one else would? 

Or did she learn something about him all those moments living side by side, some secret buried deep inside of him that only a spy could see, some hidden truth that made her trust him when she had no real reason to. 

Steve runs a thumb over the phone number for the twentieth time. 

It’s an olive branch, if only he could find it in himself to reach out and take it. 

. 

In Copenhagen, they reach another dead end. 

Steve and Sam sit slumped on a bench at the Langelinie, looking out over the water. He’s always wanted to see the Little Mermaid, always wanted to practice sketching it but now that he’s here, he finds he’s not really in the mood. 

Sam keeps sneaking sideways glances at him when Sam thinks he won’t notice, keeps opening his mouth and then snapping it shut, and it feels like they are reaching the end of their journey, here, even though they’re far from the finish line. There’s an argument stirring between them, an argument made up mostly of Steve’s stubborn streak and too many sleepless nights. 

Sam’s worried about him, he knows, and for good reason but still, Steve wants to try and stave this one off for a little bit longer. 

Steve fishes the piece of paper out of his pocket, swiftly enters the number and types out, “I prefer my coffee with sugar next time, neighbor,” before shoving his phone back inside his pocket. 

“Who was that to?” Sam asks. 

“Remember Sharon? Agent 13?” 

Sam folds his arms over his chest and turns to give Steve a deeply unimpressed glare. 

“Jesus, man, how many beautiful secret agents do you have on speed dial? You keep trying to tell me that you don’t have game but between flirting with me on the National Mall and all those ladies in your phone, I’m thinking you’re a liar liar pants on fire, Steve Rogers.”

“It’s just the three of them. And anyways, Maria is a lesbian.” 

Sam just raises an eyebrow. 

“What? She and I went for after work drinks every once in a while at Phase 1.” 

“See, and here I thought you couldn’t get drunk, Steve.” 

Steve rolls his eyes because they have had this argument, it is a practiced one and not a particularly serious one, at that, the sort of thing that Sam brings up when he just wants to poke fun a little. “Doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the process, Sam.” 

He stays away from whisky, though, because it tastes like ash and grief and a bombed out bar seventy years in the past. 

Sam huffs but Steve can see the smile stealing across his face and his shoulders loosen just that little bit at the sight. “Phase 1, huh? You go to the original or the second one?”

“The original,” Steve says. 

“What, no clubbing for you? You know, I think I’d pay good money to see Captain America doing a little bumping and grinding on the dance floor. Not here, the swill they call club music in Europe is shitty as hell but when we get back to DC? I’m gonna make that happen. I’m taking you dancing, Cap.” 

“No, you’re not.” 

“Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that, Steve.”

Sam knocks their shoulders together and smiles at him now, full and wide and bright; whatever crisis was brewing between them has been averted, pushed back for another time. 

Steve looks out at the water, gaze tracing the horizon and committing it to memory, feeling lighter than he has all week but still, his phone is a heavy weight inside his pocket. 

. 

14:56 PM.  
FROM 13: 

You’re barking up the wrong tree. 

15:17 PM.  
TO 13: 

What do you mean? 

16:05 PM.  
FROM 13: 

Do you like soccer, Steve? 

16:05 PM.  
TO 13: 

Not really, no. 

16:20 PM.  
FROM 13: 

You should think about checking out the World Cup. 

. 

In Rio, locals describe seeing a man in black, a man who wore gloves despite the warm, oppressive heat and spoke very little. 

In Rio, locals say the man stuck around for several days but he’s moved on, now, he must have because they haven’t seen him in weeks. 

Steve punches a wall, watches the way his skin cracks open and bleeds and heals just as quickly. He digs his phone out of his pocket and for the first time, presses call. 

“Is everything okay? Do you need an extraction?” Sharon’s voice is hard and quick to the point, an echo of concern lending warmth to her sharp tone. 

Steve braces himself against the wall, fingers grasping at stone and dirt, and sighs. “He’s not here. Not anymore.” 

Sharon hums. “He’s not going to feel safe right now. He won’t linger, not anywhere.” 

“Any idea where he’d go next?”

There’s a pause and he wonders if she’s thinking it through, if she’s clueless, if she’s just shrugged to herself before realizing that he can’t even see her. He tries to guess and comes up empty. Everything has been through a mirror with them. He has never looked at her straight on and known what is true. It makes him antsy and uncomfortable; he is tired of this future and its well practiced lies. 

But still. 

There was something in that girl living next door to him day in and day out that he’d been drawn to, something strong and kind and familiar and Steve thinks, some of it must have been real. 

“The CIA believes that there are some lingering HYDRA cells in Argentina. If he’s tracking down his past, that’d be a good place to start. I can text you the coordinates.” 

“Thanks,” Steve says, and it sounds scraped out of him, hoarse and gruff. “Hey, Sharon?” 

“Yeah?” 

“My mom was a nurse. TB ward. It’s what killed her, in the end. Did you know that?”

She exhales and he can hear it come through thin and tinny. “Yeah, I did.” 

“Was that part of your cover? To gain my trust?” 

“Yes, it was.” 

Steve opens his mouth to ask another question but she’s already hung up. 

. 

An hour later, she texts them the coordinates. 

. 

Two hours later, she calls back. 

Steve doesn’t even manage to get in a quick hello before Sharon starts talking. 

“You woke up every morning at 6. You ran for two hours straight. If you had a mission, you’d go into the Triskelion. If you didn’t, you’d wander around Dupont aimlessly. You’d visit the Smithsonian exhibit. You’d visit the World War II Memorial and the Gabe Jones Mural on U Street. Every once in a while, you’d venture into an art store in Adams Morgan, walk around it several times and never buy anything. On Saturdays, you’d go to the Arlington Nursing Home and visit --- “ Here, Sharon pauses and drags in a breath. “You’d visit my Aunt during open visiting hours. There was very little variation in any of that. They asked me to report on your emotional state and the only thing that I could really be sure of was that you were lonely and no mission was going to change that.” 

Steve sucks in a breath. Across the room, Sam lifts his head up, a concerned look crossing his face so Steve gives him a sharp nod and a pained, not entirely convincing smile in return before turning away. 

“Your Aunt?” 

“Peggy Carter. Great-aunt, actually, if you want to get technical about it but I was closer with Aunt Peggy than I was my own parents. My parents -- my parents wanted me to live a simple, quiet life. Conservative. Marry an investment banker, maybe. But Aunt Peggy -- she taught me everything I know. First time I ever shot a gun was in a back field behind her estate with a rifle aiming at a tin can.” 

Steve rubs a hand over his brow. It’s almost too much to take in at once. Sharon’s unflinching takedown of his life over the past two years. Peggy. _God_ , Peggy. 

“She always was a crack shot.” 

“She told me stories about her and Barnes. That they used to practice outshooting each other. Swapping guns and one-upping the stakes.” 

Steve smiles, warmed at the memory because he’d almost forgotten about that. About how Bucky and Peggy liked to go toe-to-toe, too competitive by half between the two of them but respecting the hell out of each other all the same. _I’m tellin’ ya, Rogers_ , Bucky had said, _we ever get caught in a real proper snafu, I want Carter on my side and between the two of us, maybe we can keep ya from doin’ anything too dumbass crazy._

He doesn’t say all this, though. Most memories from before, from the war, he likes to keep locked up tight inside of himself. It still feels too soon to ever let them escape, to ever let them go. 

Hell, maybe it always will. 

“Is that why you’re doing this?” 

“You could say that I’m doing this because Natasha asked me to, because she’s worried about you. Because she did and she is. You could say I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do. You could say I’m doing this because the guy who lived next door to me for a year and a half -- I liked that guy. I’m doing this for a lot of reasons, Rogers, and all of them are my own.” Sharon pauses for a moment, blowing out a breath. 

“I make a point not to get sentimental on the job, Captain Rogers, but this mission was always personal for me. Does that answer your question?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does.” 

“How about instead, we get burgers next time. I always saw you bringing back takeout from that same shitty place,” Sharon says, voice turned teasing, “I know you know how to use Yelp, Rogers, there’s no excuse. You, me, a burger and fries and an alcoholic milkshake. Forget coffee.”

Steve drags a hand over his face, huffing a laugh into it. The people he surrounds himself with, Christ. “I’ll add it to the list.” 

“What else is on the list?”

Steve grimaces. “Bumping and….grinding?” 

Sharon snorts and it echoes over the phone. “Sounds like Airman Wilson has his priorities in order.” 

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Steve says and Sam just raises his eyebrows at him, like he _knows_. 

“Hey, Steve,” Sharon begins, quiet and sure and this part, this is not a joke. “Do you ever feel like -- like you joined up because you wanted to do good. You wanted to do the right thing but somewhere along the way, you just lost the whole fucking plot.” 

“All of the time.” 

. 

9:35 AM  
FROM 13: 

Need backup? 

9:38 AM  
TO 13: 

Don’t you have work? 

10:00 AM  
FROM 13: 

They’ve got me riding a desk. I’ve played hangman with myself for the past hour.  


10:06 AM  
TO 13: 

Don’t forget to pack some sunscreen. 

. 

Steve’s only just put the key in the ignition of their rented Jeep in Buenos Aires when he hears one of the back doors slam open and shut. Him and Sam both swivel in their seats to look, practically in unison, and how the hell didn’t he even _hear_ her coming. 

Sharon is perched on the edge of the backseat, blonde hair up in a neat, out of the way braid and wearing a standard black combat suit, a worn brown leather jacket that looks like it's seen better days slung on top of it. “Hey, got room for one more?” 

“I don’t know, did you remember your sunscreen?” Steve asks, a lopsided grin crossing his face. 

Sharon digs a hand into her duffle, pulling out a tube of sunscreen and slamming it against his chest. “What next, boys?” 

“I like her,” Sam says simply, turning to face forward and fasten his seatbelt. 

“You would,” Steve says. 

“Yeah, yeah, we’re all very likeable, let’s save the sexual tension for the after party, guys. Did you plot out my coordinates?” 

“Yep,” Sam says, digging out a map of his own. “Should take us about a two hour drive. Too bad I forgot my mix tape, huh?”

“If either one of you tries to play I, Spy, I’ll probably shoot you,” Sharon says. 

Steve starts up the engine before pulling out of the parking lot. “I spy with my little eye…” 

From the back, Sharon groans and leans up to smack him upside the head. Sam laughs and offers up his hand for a fist bump. 

Steve decides that he has terrible friends. 

. 

They drive right into a war-zone. 

The HYDRA base is already on fire, half of the side of the building blown outwards with flames licking high up into the sky, and there are agents running around everywhere and smack dab in the middle of it all, there is Bucky. 

“Looks like we’re fashionably late, huh?” Sam says, even as he’s already throwing open the car door and reaching for his own gun. 

Steve opens his mouth to bark out orders but finds that he doesn’t have to. 

They fall into place, Sharon at his back and Sam up high, high, high, watching over them and evening up the odds. Sharon is a rough and tumble fighter and there is something vicious and practiced and goddamn admirable about it, and between her and two super soldiers, they’ve about got the ground covered. 

Sharon spins a HYDRA agent around, wrenching his arm behind him and grabbing his weapon before clocking him in the face with his own gun, knocking him out. 

“Is there a plan here?” 

“Take down the enemy agents, beg for forgiveness later?” Steve tosses out and Sharon laughs as she turns and kicks another HYDRA agent square in the stomach. 

“That’s a shitty plan, Rogers.” 

“Lady, those are his specialty,” Bucky says, turning and shooting an agent square in the head and that should bother Steve a little more, maybe, but the words send a jolt straight through him, a bright, sharp pang of relief. 

Steve is back to back with his best friend and they have a team and it is not the same team, it is not _their_ team, but it’s a pretty damn good one nonetheless. 

In this moment, Steve wouldn’t trade them for anything. 

. 

 

“Bucky. Buck. Please come home.” 

Bucky reaches out a hand before dropping it just as quickly, a barely there movement. All of his movements are tight, sharp and economical now. He used to be so open, so expressive and tactile before and it’s another thing to mark in the column of HYDRA’s sins. 

“There are things that I need to do still.” 

“What, taking out HYDRA? If that’s what you need to do, you know...you know I’d watch your back,” Steve says. “It’d be a nice change, huh?” The _for once_ goes unsaid but from the sad shake of Bucky’s head, Steve figures not entirely unnoticed. 

“Stevie, this ain’t about you. It ain’t even about you and me or --- or revenge. I want answers and I...this part, this part I want to do alone. I’m not sayin’ that’s forever. I’m sayin’ that’s for now. That’s...there are things in my head that are still. That are still tied up, still feel wrong like -- like nails on a chalkboard, remember like that time in fourth grade?” 

“Yeah, I remember.”

“It’s like that. Just like that.” 

“But -- “ 

“Steve, this is what I need,” Bucky interrupts, jaw set and they could always be just as stubborn as each other, couldn’t they. 

Steve finds himself wishing for pockets to shove his hands into, finds himself wishing he could be smaller, shorter, that he could fold within himself because he feels deflated after spending so long with the thought “find Bucky” as the only thing still keeping him going. 

He sees Sharon and Sam out of the corner of his eyes, just behind him, feels Sam place a steadying hand on his elbow. 

“This is your choice,” Steve says heavily. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.” 

“Thanks,” Bucky says, like it surprises him, like he didn’t expect to get his way quite so easily and that’s enough to let Steve know that he made the right call. 

“So…..” Sam starts, drawing out the o. “Sharon said something about burgers?” 

“C’mon, Cap,” Sharon says. “Let’s go home.” 

. 

The hard gravel crunches underneath them, sticking to the backs of their jeans as they swing their feet over the edge of the rooftop of Steve and Sharon’s apartment building. It’s probably foolish of them both to stay in this building, not when everyone knows their location, splashed as it was all over the evening news, but. 

HYDRA can fucking try, as far as he’s concerned. 

It strikes Steve that he's never seen Sharon quite this relaxed. Not in the hallway when he was a SHIELD agent and she was a nurse, not in his apartment with Nick Fury's blood on both their hands and not at any point since. 

There's a looseness in her shoulders and a lightness to her voice and he thinks, this must be the separation, the dividing line between Sharon Carter and Agent 13. The woman somewhere in between that he’s just starting to get to know. 

Steve rolls the beer bottle back and forth in his hands, perspiration coating his fingertips. "Nat kept trying to set me up with you, you know." 

Sharon takes a deep swig of her beer, rolling her shoulders back as if bracing for impact. "That so, Rogers? She tell you why? Why me, I mean." 

Her posture is still relaxed but there is a guarded tone to her voice now and it slots a few things into place, answers a few questions left hanging. 

"Why she kept trying to set me up with her exes? Not really but I gotta tell you, I was half expecting Barton to be next." 

"What, not your type?" 

Steve pauses, beer bottle poised halfway to his mouth. They're speaking in code, here, feeling each other out and he's not as good at this as she is but -- he doesn't want to be, does he, and this world has asked enough of him. Some limits he won't push. 

"Nah. He's a little old for me, don't you think?" 

Sharon snorts, beer going up into her nose and he winces in sympathy, imagining how painful the carbonated sensation must be but his concern fades pretty fast as Sharon breaks out into a great, hacking cough that's mostly laughter. "Jesus, Steve. Warn a girl, would you? But no -- no, you're right. You don't want to be some ex-SHIELD agent's mid-life crisis fling, you'll wind up losing your underwear in the backseat of a bright red convertible." 

"Speaking from experience?" Steve asks, a sly grin playing around the corner of his lips and he expects the punch to the arm, accepts it as his due punishment. "Do I need to be worried about you, Agent Carter?" 

Sharon rolls her eyes. "You're not as funny as you think you are, Steve." 

"He's really not," Sam's voice pipes up from behind them. Steve cranes his neck to grin up at Sam, who is striding across the rooftop, a bag of take-out food in one hand and another six pack in the other. 

"Does that mean I don't get any food, Sam?" 

Sam stops just short of the edge and looks down at them both, a put-upon frown on his face. 

"No, your tiny Super Soldier ass is definitely getting some food because no one wants to hear you moaning and groaning and sneaking out in the middle of the night to buy ice cream from CVS, Rogers, now scooch over and make some room." 

Steve moves over so Sam can sit between them, lowering himself down to the hard concrete. Sharon gently teases Sam as they dole out the burgers and Sam rises to it, striking up an easy banter done up in relaxed, comfortable flirting tones that set the pace for the night, a back and forth that’s equal parts push and pull and Steve surprises himself when he doesn’t feel like the third wheel. 

He fits in just fine.


End file.
